


My Empire Of Dirt

by Hilo



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Choking, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Peter is very tired and doesnt know how to approach the situation, Schizophrenia, wade has unhealthy coping mechanisms and avoids everything and everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 01:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hilo/pseuds/Hilo
Summary: Wade wakes up from a suicide to the only person he doesn't want to know about it.





	My Empire Of Dirt

Wade came back from the blissful silence of death and the first thing he registered were voices.  _So damn early? Can’t take a break_ , he thought, bitterly. One of the main reasons he enjoyed being dead was because the voices inside his head ceased to exist; when he bounced back to life, they also remained quiet for a few minutes, as if his brain was too busy restarting to load them right back on.

He blinked, trying to get used to the white tiles that bounced the light and made everything impossibly bright. He shut his eyelids together again and breathed through his nose. The area of his neck and throat was raw, tender, and the air seemed to escape, not filling his lungs as much as it should. If he concentrated enough, he could feel the tissue still sewing back together. His brain had jumped to life the moment the air was able to travel upwards and fuel it. Shot to the throat was a bad idea, he checked it off his list: short off-line time, uncomfortable hole, alive but struggling to get enough air, would not recommend to a friend.

He gave up on getting a good oxygen fill and instead turned his efforts to resituate himself. He recognized the white tiles (white was a very generous adjective taking into account the grime that had browned the lines between them and texturized the squares), his head was crooked at a weird angle and something cold was digging on his back. He vaguely remembered laying on the bathtub to cry. Oh. His brain started to flood the back of his eyelids with memories, the most recent one being a manic breakdown. He sure hated being hit with one hundred emotions at the same time and having the energy for once to feel them all. Too bad his software was old and tacky and couldn’t process them all. It was better to reset the system on those cases, right?

_[Are you proud of that analogy?]_

_[_ _**are you even sure that is what it’s called?]** _

_[That should have been a capital A.]_

Okay, the voices were definitely back now. Great. Wade was ready to groan in response when he realized two things: first, his vocal chords were not quite there yet; second, if the voices had returned  _now_ , what were the voices he had waken up to?

He forced himself to open his eyes back again, expected tiles welcoming him. They covered the ceiling too and Wade  _hated_ it. It made the bathroom way smaller than it already was, resembling a dirty claustrophobic box. He moved his hands from underneath the lukewarm water that covered up to half his chest and rested them on the rim of the tub, using them as leverage to lift himself up. The bullet sell resonated when it fell and then drowned on the water. The gun was resting on the bottom of the tub, where his thigh once was.

The hole was now completely healed and his legs were able to get him out, strengthened by the oxygen. He quickly patted himself dry (slightly disgusted at the soaked clothes clinging to his skin) and walked past the mirror, drifting his gaze. He was not ready for that baggage yet. He pressed his ear to the door and listened carefully. The TV laughed on the other side, playing the show he had left on before his meltdown.

He relaxed his shoulders and opened the door, glad that it was nothing to worry about. He wasn’t feeling like dealing with intruders right now. His stomach was roaring for food, completely empty from the effort of bringing Wade to life. Technically, his body could survive without food for what seemed an infinite amount of time, but Wade had never gotten farther from a week without food. He enjoyed eating and the pain of an empty stomach was too uncomfortable, like his tummy was crawling inside itself and his head was so lightheaded it was going to float away any moment. Plus, he had a vague memory of a fairly fresh leftover burrito waiting for him on the fridge.

He had walked exactly four steps onto the living room to the kitchen when he heard a soft pad of  _something_ colliding on the carpet. He stopped. The counter was in front of him, within arm reach, toppled with kitchen utensils and trash.

“I don’t know if I want it to be inside my head or actually be here”, he said. His voice sounded hoarse, clearly still healing. Not like it made much difference, having it permanently covered in scar tissue.

“I’m here”, and Wade was twisting his torso and throwing a knife to the head of the enemy.

Except it wasn’t an enemy, but Spider-man, and he dodged the attack effortlessly thanks to his stupid spider sense.  _[Triple S!!!]_ He lifted his arms, palms showing, in surrender.  _[Four if you add “Spidey’s”]._ Wade slowly straightened his back and forced himself to focus on the situation. He was still feeling disoriented from dying, even if he was physically healed, so he allowed himself some seconds to analyze everything. Spider-man was standing in front of him, trying to look relaxed and in control of the situation, but the muscles of his lifted arms were tense and loaded with energy, as were his legs, ready to jump into action at any moment. Wade couldn’t see his face through the mask (has never done so) and it made him aware of his own exposed skin.

He decided the best course of action was to calm the superhero down, if he wanted to get some answers on what was he doing on his house. So he slowly reached for the hood of his jacket and pulled it over his head.

_[You are too quiet.]_

_**[And you aren’t.]** _

_[Say something or he’s freaking out.]_

“No one’s freaking out.”

“… Okay”, Wade looked up to the hero, startled by his answer. He had zooned out of the room, forgetting where he was for a moment, distracted by the voices. He felt shame drown him in waves. He usually didn’t care about other’s opinions of him, but he has been trying hard to impress Spider-man, show him that he was trust-worthy. And talking to yourself was not a point to the winning column.

His ankles touched as he corrected again his posture, clearing his throat.

“Exactly!”, Wade chirped. He was glad that his voice came clear and high pitched. “And this is a very weird situation, but I’m sure you got some super good explanation as to why you were casually breaking and entering my house. So let’s just get to that part and no one will freak out!”, he stretched his lips in a smile. He saw the small jump of Spider-man’s feet back, fingers curling, and he cringed. _How fucking stupid of him, forgetting he was not wearing his mask. Smiling and joking around didn’t have the same effect when the freak show was on._

Spidey, ever the gentleman, did not comment on it. In fact, his body seemed to shake out the shock and relax his spine for the first time since he dropped to the floor, walking a few steps forward. His hands were now twitching nervously on his sides, looking for something to grasp.

“I called you”, he said. There was a pause and Wade took it as the excuse he was looking for.

“So you decided to come after me when I didn’t answer? I didn’t take you for the needy type!”, Wade laughed as he turned around and took a mask peeking under the sofa. He put it on. It smelled of sweat, dust and suspiciously like vomit. He tried to adjust the material to avoid having his nose directly plastered to the now dry substance, and sat on the sofa, lazily spreading his legs over the coffee table. The sweatpants were heavy with water and kind of uncomfortable, but they covered his legs fully. His arms were not as lucky, the sleeves stopped little after the shoulders.

_[Who the fuck makes a sleeveless hoodie?]_

_**[And who the fuck buys one?]** _

He picked idly at the exposed skin, twisting the tissue sticking out and stretching it until it tore off. He repeated the motion for a few minutes, losing himself on the sight of the organ tying itself back together, until he couldn’t bear the gazing holes burning his nape. He looked to his right and saw Spidey standing there, torso now slightly twisted to face him, eyes glued to the movement of his hands on his arm, but otherwise in the same position.

Wade tapped the seat next to him as invitation. “Wanna watch TV? There are some reruns of-”

“I called you”, Spidey repeated.

“Yeah, you told me”, Wade crooked his neck and tried to figure the other man out. He didn’t seemed scared of him like before, but was not exactly happy with the situation, as if he wasn’t done talking. Maybe there was more to it? “Was it an emergency?”, he asked. He roamed his eyes over his body, trying to pick up any sing of violence or injuries. Aside from some worrying proving ribs and a hole near the end of his forearm that had been there for a week now, he found nothing. He didn’t know how he would have felt if Spidey had asked for his help for once and he hadn’t been there for him.

Fortunately, Spidey shook his head. “Just wanted to know why you weren’t at the taco place for our patrol”, his voice broke a little at the end and he tried to cover it coughing.

_Oh, that_ . Wade had almost forgotten these past three months. They had known each other from a long time ago, first as rumors and then as “that other dude that has freaky powers and happens to live/work on the same area as I do”. Their relationship has stayed like that for a long time, until Wade decided to confess his admiration for him ( _genuine_ feelings involved, not flirty intentions behind) and his wish to become a better person. Spidey took him under his wing shortly after. They started doing patrols three months ago, always meeting at the same place and hour. They exchanged numbers along the way.

Wade hadn’t missed a single meeting without warning, so he could see where Peter’s worry was coming from. But there was something else. Something about the way he was holding himself together, contained, something that was off. He imagined the hero leaving voicemail after voicemail, cold settling in after waiting for so long.

“Fuck, sorry”, he said. He eyed Spidey, whose frame had started to tremble, even if his wobbly chin proudly stayed up. “I lost track of time”, he pointed with the remote to the TV.

A long silence settled in and Wade’s head started to spin. The hero was not moving, he has contained in that eerie pose, static and rigid. Wade couldn’t read him, didn’t know what he has thinking nor what he was about to do and that made him itchy. Real silence meant inside party. His head was clogging up with sounds and hisses and voices, trying to speak up, whispering but filling the inside of his ears completely.  _[You fucked up] [_ _**He is freaking out** _ **] [** _**Because** _ _of_ _**you]] [** _ _It’s_ _**your** _ _fault_ _**]** _ He hated when the two voices joined forces and mixed together to create more of them, leaving him confused and disoriented. Their pitch was annoying and the syllables turned into hisses and spitting words, ringing in his ears.  _Shutupshutup. You are so rude_ .

“… Wade?”

Wade snapped back to reality and the pause on the inner monologue was so harsh it made the room spin. He could swear he saw a leg out of the corner of his eye. He physically stopped his neck from turning to check it, grabbing his chin in a way he hoped didn’t look suspicious.

“Yes, baby boy?”, his voice echoed on the walls of his brain and the nickname repeated itself over and over, deforming and loosing itself. _Babynoybabyboybabyboybabyboybabbyoybaboy._

He blinked.

The word had taken over his vision and for a moment he lost sight of the hero standing in front him. The edges kept being stained after that. Maybe it was a breathing problem? Could it really be a breathing problem? His healing factor had kicked in as soon as the wound was inflicted, that bullet hole was long repaired by now. He extended the thumb from his chin to his neck, caressing the surface and finding no holes.

“What were you watching?” Spidey’s voice was so soothing. Muffled by the fabric, but still clear and firm. The kid sure knew how to hide a tremble in the voice. He even managed to take a step towards the sofa.

_**[Kill him]** _

“Generic romcon?”, Wade sifted on the sofa, accommodating. For some reason his ass wouldn’t find a comfy spot above the dirty cushions.

Spidey took another steep towards  _[Kill him before it’s too late]_ him and yes, definitely breathing problem. Fucking healing factor, can’t even do these things right. For such a powerful recovery, coming back always left his brain messed up. Wade worked his lungs as subtly as he could as the man stood next to him. It was that stupid gross mask, too dirty to let air pass through, he was probably getting sick by whatever wild bacteria he had been inhaling through that. He casually moved the hand under his chin and hook it past the edge of the mask, hoping to get some fresh air flowing.

“Mind if I watch it with you?”

Oh, man, look at his polite ass go. Wade really wanted to express how proud he was of his boy, but the lack of oxygen going up his brain was not helping with the vocalizing part, so he limited to nod and moved even farther to the right of the sofa. The cushions dipped when Spidey sat down, spine barely touching the backrest.

He had this under control, he had this under control. He just needed to grow up the hole on his throat that must have reopened somehow even if he had just checked that there wasn’t any and he could move on from this agony onto the next and enjoy the bad script and poor actor casting of the show with the hero he wished to impress so much. And he couldn’t fuck this up because, really, how many times had Spidey come to visit him? Not more than two and definitely for not more than a few minutes.

He opened his mouth slightly in an attempt to get more clean air passing, but a wheeze came out instead, which caught Spidey’s attention. Fucking Spidey senses again. Wade could feel the hero tensing up and watch him from the corner of his eye. He was judging him, analyzing him, with the inscrutable faceless verdict of the righteous. He was seeing right through him, looking down on him from above his superiority moral pedestal. And he was scheming, assessing the situation and planning ahead before it got out of control. Because the truth was that Wade was unstable. And Spidey knew that and he had just taken pity of him and decided to help him. Until then, when he had realized that Deadpool was out of his fucking mind. When he had found him dead and was now hyperventilating on the sofa.  _**[Kill him now before he kills you he is going to kill you and torture you kill him and then kill yourself and again and kill him and]** _

The thing with intrusive thoughts and voices in your head is that sometimes you cannot distinguish them from reality. Sometimes you hear your name whispered and you turn around to find that you are alone. Sometimes you cannot tear apart invasive ideas from common sense and gut feeling. But the worst thing, was that Wade knew that last sentence were his voices speaking. He knew those words by hand, they have been echoing inside his skull for years, and he knew they were some antics to manipulate him. And still, he decided to give in. Because the truly worst part was that he was weak and he couldn’t face them, and he was too tired to fight them back. When humoring them wouldn’t work, he just complied their orders and demands.

So he abruptly stood up and threw Spidey to the ground. The carpet did a poorly job at softening the fall and the hero’s mask deformed when he gasped for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. Wade’s mind was racing a mile a minute and he felt like he had lost control over his own body. He watched himself neutralize Spidey’s attempts at escaping by straddling his thighs and circling his fingers around both wrists, pinning them down above his head. Spidey’s body was struggling against his hold, and deep down he wondered why he wasn’t  _really_ fighting back, like he had seen him do with the bad guys, throwing them over his shoulder like they were lightweight litter.

“Wade!”, he choked out.

His words died in the back of his throat when Wade squeezed his fingers around it, tightening his hold more and more and more, until he could almost sense the neck about to snap. Spider-man’s cries for help mixed with the cacophony inside his head, growing more and more desperate and losing all meaning. Now that he was doing it, that he was  _killing_ him, he couldn’t stop. Not only had he lost control over his hand, his arm, his body. He couldn’t imagine a future past this, breathing and without his heart beating madly, blocking the air that managed to get past his rusty mask. And what would he tell Spidey afterwards? How would he face the hero? If he let him live, he would die on his hands minutes after, he would return to the scumbag that he was before meeting him. So he just kept on squeezing, it was his only option, to kill the witness of his real lack of control, to kill the only fool who believed in him.

And as he saw drool darkening Spider-man’s mask, he felt a strange sense of peace. After he had died, he could go back to where he started. To a fog of red and black, with no attachments or responsibilities, not living up for anyone’s expectations.

The vivid dream was soon shattered when Spider-man broke out of his hold and punched him. His teeth rattled so hard his fingers lost strength and the world blackened out for a few seconds. He could only hear the agonizing breaths the hero pulled, hand on his throat and head hanging between his shoulders. He was curled up, vulnerable, but Wade couldn’t bring himself to stand up and try it again.

He was so tired, all of a sudden. His chest hurt, like it was being stabbed over and over again with each beat. The carpet underneath him was soft and it reeked of booze and dust, but his arms were shaking so much he knew they wouldn’t be able to hold his weight. So he gave out and saw how Spider-man regained control of himself, how he stilled and raised above him.

“Wade”, he croaked, voice harsh. Two big white lenses reflected his pathetic body but Wade, again, couldn’t look away. It was morbid curiosity, to see how his victim was recovering from the abuse, what marks had he inflicted that were still being taken care of. A part of him wished he could undo the latex shirt to see the purple marks on the flesh of his neck, see his fingers pressed there.

There was silence, then. And stillness. Air started to push past the weight on his chest as he concentrated on the lines of Spider-man’s suit. He remained motionless, hovering over him. Wade could feel the pulsing energy, pleading to get out, but the hero didn’t act on it. Instead, he waited, patiently, for Wade. And Wade waited with him too.

“Do you feel better?”, Spider-man asked. His voice wavered with contained emotion, but it sounded so confident to Wade’s ears. Like a parent who knows what to expect of a petulant child, how to control his tantrums. It made Wade feel small and stupid, the voices hissed and recoiled at that attitude. But his body felt too empty to act on it, to actually get up and fight back and deny what had happened. It were as if his bones had hollowed out and left bullet sells behind. Useless caps that have lost all their force.

To his own disbelief, he saw himself nod.

“Good”, Spidey said. He sat down next to him, legs crossed and hands covering his ankles. The line of his muscles followed the pattern on his suit and it made Wade’s pupils unfocus. “Do you want me to keep talking?”, he asked. Wade wouldn’t have realized it was a question aimed at him if it hadn’t been for the drawn out silence. He barely moved his head to his right, tring to face him. The hero repeated the question and Wade nodded again. He watched his chest expand, taking in a deep breath before starting. “I called you when you didn’t show up. I had already bought tacos so I figured I could at least drop by and give them to you, so they wouldn’t go to waste”, he twists a bit to the left and Wade follows the direction of his finger, to a brown paper bag that was leaking grease. “But when I knocked, you didn’t answer. The TV was on and I got worried”, Wade felt a memory of remorse hit the back of his head. He felt guilty for making him worry? “So I entered. I’m sorry. I was worried”, his voice was starting to sound strangled again and Wade wiggled his fingers to make sure they weren’t squeezing his throat. “And you weren’t anywhere and I decided to check the bathroom and you- you were there. Dead”, Spidey’s voice finally gave in that heavy word, as if he couldn’t carry the weight of its meaning. He hadn’t found the scene of a battle nor a murder, he had found a suicide. An ugly and disgusting being vulnerable and weak, doubled over and bleeding, covered on his own blood and mistakes. Wade can imagine how revolting it must have been.

“Yikes”, he says.

Surprisingly, that makes Spidey choke a wet sound, a sad laugh that eats away at Wade’s ears. It sounds so wrong.  _[Should have stayed silent, buddy]._

“You can’t do that, Wade”, Spidey said. And he was reaching behind his mask to wipe away tears. Wade drank in the sight of the creamy skin that flashed, looking soft and reddish from the cry. “I don’t- I cannot stand the sight of you like that- It’s so- So wrong! You fucking killed yourself!”

The merc visibly flinched at the raise of volume. Spidey took his hand away, but his mask remained lifted up above the bridge of his nose. His mouth was swollen and gnarled, angry with frustration. It made Wade snap completely out of his post mental breakdown gaze. He sat up with difficulty and arranged his limbs to be as hidden from the face of the hero as possible without looking too obvious.

“Well, don’t get your panties in a twist, Spidey!”, his own voice sounded still surreal and he wasn’t completely sure where his words were coming from. Like he was pressing the ‘talk’ button and recorded phrases were coming out.

“Don’t get my…? Wade!”, Spidey’s hands formed fists and trembled. “I had to watch my friend committing suicide!”

_[He said the F word.]_

_**[Fuck.]** _

_[No, the F word is ‘friend’, you idiot.]_

_**[He is lying.]** _

_[He is. Can be pretend he isn’t tho?]_

“I mean, you didn’t exactly _watched_ me as I was doing it, I always make sure of that”, Wade grinned and stretched his arms above his head. It felt good to slip back on autopilot and let his recorded dialogue do the dirty job for him.

Spidey pressed his lips together and worry lines formed around the corners. Wade thought the vigilante was young, not past thirty for sure, and yet his skin was craved under lines of pressure and aging. He remained still, loosing himself in a train of thought Wade didn’t want to follow.

It seemed like the conversation had ended, given the silence that had began stretching between them, so Wade stood up and picked the greasy bag of tacos Spidey had brought. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was the burrito he was supposed to have eaten before. It had looked way better in his imagination, though; now that it was in front of him, sitting alone in the cold shelf, he could see the mold and shagginess of the bread. He closed the door and poured the contents of take out on the microwave. He slurped the warmed soda while he waited. Resting against one of the counters, he studied the line of Spidey’s back. He was still sitting on the floor, curled on himself, a deep wrinkle in the middle of his mask, matching the frown of his mouth.

The microwave dinged and he collected the now hot food and walked to the living room again. He considered for a brief second sitting on the couch to bathe in the view of Spidey sprawled on the floor below him, but decided against it. He never was a dom kind of guy and the consequences of his attack were starting to nag at the corners of his consciousness. He dropped in front of him, back resting against the sofa.

“Tacos?”, he offered, eyes glued to the television. It was a tampon commercial, women happily running in bright colors across the screen. He had never been more glad of misogyny for the blue substance that replaced blood. He was sure he wasn’t ready to gut that sight just yet.

“How often do you do this?”, Spidey asked instead, tone gone soft and tired.

Wade eyed him out of the corner of his eye. He looked so defeated, so ready to give up. He knew the responsibilities the hero insisted on putting on his shoulders, how he weighed himself down with the baggage of others. So he decided to give him a way out.  _**[You are doing this for yourself, to avoid talking about your own fucking issues, you selfish prick.]** _

“Eating Mexican food? About everyday?”, he joked around a mouthful. The hero’s shoulders dropped down and he breathed a very heavy sigh. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before settling himself to face the TV. His frame was tucked in, curled inside itself to take as little space as possible. Still, Wade could feel the heat radiating off of him and warming up his side.

“Still up for watching TV together?”, Spidey asked, small and unsure.

“No doubt!”, Wade giggled and turned the volume up, up, up. His voices were hissing and bitching, speaking above the dialogue of the show, but he forced himself to stay still. He pinned himself down to the floor and stuffed his face with dubious vegetable filling to stop himself from saying too much. Because he knew this wasn’t over. Whatever goal Spidey had set his mind into, it was starting to wear down his posture and eat away at him, and he knew the other man had already decided that he wasn’t stopping until it got resolved.

Whether  _it_ meant that night’s issue, Wade’s issues, or Wade himself, was another matter. They were all lost causes, so they only translated to how much time was the hero going to waste on them.

Wade pushed all those thoughts aside and drowned on the bad puns of the show and Spidey’s warmth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language so feel free to correct any grammar mistakes.
> 
> I wanted more fics regarding Wade's mental illnesses. His episode escalated fairly quickly because he was already in the middle of a crisis and had recently killed himself.
> 
> In an ideal world I would turn this into a slow burn multichapter fic of recovery and discovery of one another, but I doubt that will happen. Might write follow-ups as other stories and add them to the same collection, though. At least to give this some happier ending.
> 
> Also, Peter is 28, Wade is in his mid-late 30s. (Ages more or less based on their comic).
> 
> Tittle from "Hurt" by Johnny Cash.


End file.
